


A Crow to Crown Iron

by snarry_splitpea



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Assassination Plot(s), Cunnilingus, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:24:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6527395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarry_splitpea/pseuds/snarry_splitpea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vivienne has no trouble outbidding the man that sent an assassin to claim her life.  The assassin had changed his mind about the job the moment he saw her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Crow to Crown Iron

Despite being a commander of elements, Vivienne knew very little of how to stun a man she didn't intend to kill.

In fact, the spell that held the nimble rogue in place long enough for her to step back and observe him had been improvised. A masterful, though desperate deployment of ice magic and borrowed power from the fade rift her team was there to close. Pure ice magic, in which she was proficient, could have killed him.  A gamble that may have frozen his very blood and left his nimble, rag-draped body blue and broken.

At the moment, the assassin stood at the edge of the brook he'd found Vivienne bathing in. One foot kicked up in stilled action. Both arms outstretched in a move seemingly designed to decapitate. If not for the tiny blades in his fists, Vivienne would have assumed he'd wanted to kill her, instantly. She squinted at the two-inch daggers. He'd obviously been asked to incapacitate her, first. Perhaps to extract information before finishing the deed. She felt a wave of nausea as she realized he may have been asked to make sure she suffered.  She didn't want to show her fear but couldn't contain a shiver.  The warm, Spring climate meant he wouldn't assume the shudder was due to her nudity.

"You fight like a crow but dress like a beggar," Vivienne paced around the frozen figure, giving it a wide berth in case her experimental spell didn't hold. She'd been foolish to wander so far from camp for a bath, but at least she had a staff with her. After all, she had anticipated wolves or the occasional bear. There hadn't been an assassination attempt on her since leaving Orlais and she'd grown far too careless.

Her nostrils twitched with obvious distaste. "I assume, by the stench, that your tattered clothes are not an affectation or disguise."

Looking down her nose at the elf, Vivienne took in as much as she could of his appearance. Brown skin.  Blonde hair carefully arranged in a ponytail with decorative braids.  Sculpted lips spread in a gleeful sneer.  An appealing face.  Far more appealing than she wanted to admit to herself, considering she was looking at her would-be murderer.

The light of her spell danced over his skin making the ice flow like water.  Unsettling.  Water was powerful but unpredictable.  She took a few more steps back.

Though uncomfortable in her nudity, she wasted no time reaching for her clothes and no energy containing the jiggle of her hips and breasts as she moved. She, honestly, felt most upset about her lack of a horned hat. Without it, her imposing figure was diminished to the human proportion of not-much-taller-than-her-elven-assailant.

"Whatever the price you've been offered, I shall double it to keep my life in tact. I am also willing to purchase their name and motive, if you have them," Vivienne continued. "When my spell relents, I shall remain poised to burn you to a crisp. You may still finish me off, but you'll never find a healer to restore your features. The fact that your hair remains clean and combed while your breeches are in need of a wash and several patches tells me a great deal about your priorities."

Priorities she had the stinging realization they both shared.

She had no idea how to release the spell. The ice, she could melt. The fade, she could not contain. Vivienne hoped the magic hadn't accidentally killed him, already.  His eyes still looked fresh, beautiful, and alive.  But magic was funny that way.  She tamped down a small pang of empathy that coiled around her heart like unwanted vermin and decided that his looks had nothing to do with her desperation to hear him speak.  See him move, again.  She simply wanted information about his benefactor.  Any client ambitious enough to send the elf into the wilderness for a kill when they could easily wait for her return to Orlais was far too determined.  They'd likely send more and more until the deed was finally done.

It seemed her intentions were all that were necessary to release the man.  He stumbled forward and allowed himself to fall down into a grovelling bow.

"Duke _Bastien_ de Ghislain sends his regards," came out in a silky, Antivan accent.  The hunched over figure pressed his forehead to the ground, making himself smaller with the gesture.

Vivienne found herself incapable of thought for a moment.  She stuttered out a reply as her hand tightened on her staff.

"Su... surely you jest," she muttered breathlessly.  Distraught and too thoroughly hurt to hide it.

The assassin carefully stood and she found herself stepping backwards. Again, she moved toward the water instead of bracing herself for an attack.  She wasn't sure she could fight anyone ever again if it was her dear Sebastien that wanted her dead.  

"A jest, indeed," he quickly admitted.  His tone apologetic.  Seeing her so thoroughly shaken was endearing.  Far more endearing than her nudity which had already convinced him the world would be sadder for her loss.  "A competitor of his is my client.  My client assumes your love for de Ghislain is feigned for power and your rejection of my client is an insult to his virility.  Not typically the kind of job I take, but beggars cannot be choosers, can they?"

Insulted.  Shocked.   **Livid**. Vivienne fought not to fry him in that instant.

"Beggars can't be crows, either.  Who are you!?"

The figure dipped into a different bow.  This involved one arm outstretched behind him while the other curled at his waist.  He made sure to point both toes with precarious balance.  An extravagant bow.  Orlesian and dandy.  Perhaps the only Orlesian way he knew to express the quality of his social skills.  Or perhaps a joke at her expense.

"Zevran Arainai at your service, Madam de Fer."

She couldn't contain a scoff.  Couldn't stop her eyes from rolling in disbelief.

"For a man at risk of being burned alive, you can't seem to find your way into serious conversation.  Who. Are. You?"

"I'm surprised a lady of such gentle breeding has heard enough about the amazing Zevran Arainai to assume this a joke!"

"I know you've done your research if you know of Bastien.  Therefore, you know that nothing of my breeding was gentle. I will not be mocked."

"Your pride is not so easily damaged.  I fear no retaliation for my words, madam," Zevran replied.  His expression easy and posture relaxed.  He looked as if he were merely chatting with a friend.  It unnerved Vivienne to speak with someone who didn't fear her.  It made sense.  Just unnerved her.  

Socially, they were worlds apart.  Physically, well... what decent assassin would fear any mark? The way he looked her in the eye with a cavalier smile made her almost want to believe that she had, indeed, faced down the legendary crow defector.  A rogue gone rogue. Close associate of the Warden that had saved Ferelden and perhaps the entire world, not long ago.

He sheathed both blades at his hip and held up his hands, exposing both wrists to assure her that none remained hidden.  Of course, if he wanted to attack, pulling the blades from the belt hanging from his waist would take him less than a second.  She still appreciated that he seemed to consider her comfort.

"My offered payment was a villa in Val Royeaux and a place at court," Zevran said.

Vivienne knew both were near priceless.  Far out of her own and the Inquisition's budgets.  Yet, it seemed unlikely an elf, especially an elf as handsome and memorable as this one, could be tucked into the court as anything but a performer.  Though appropriate for his sharp tongue, she knew a bard with a villa was even more suspicious.

"They'd planned to kill you," she observed. Finding herself feeling something akin to pity for the man.

"Many clients do.  They assume it will prevent future trouble," Zevran shrugged.  The gesture highlighting his confidence, once again.  It didn't seem feigned.  Nothing like the continuously hardened resolves she and Dorian fought to maintain.  Zevran wasn't worried she would kill him.  She didn't know if this was a testament to his fighting skill or something he'd found in his research of her.  Either way, it was impressive.

"It does not?" Vivienne asked.

"No, my lady, it does not.  After all, most assassins have a network.  An agent gone missing after completing a job for you is an invitation to chaos."

"If you are Zevran Arainai, then you have no network."

"I'd just planned to say that the crows took me back."

"Not a soul would believe that lie!  They're bound by their word and their word on Zevran is a resounding no!  Even I know that."

"Look, my client's word is as good as nug shit.  People see themselves in others.  The assassins say "no" today and "yes" tomorrow.  Makes sense to him."

"You still haven't told me your client's name."

"I also do not plan to.  I am poor and, perhaps, right now you cannot see how handsome I am.  My only bargaining chip is that I know who wants you dead and you do not," His smile broadened showing rows of perfectly straight teeth.  "Do you say 'no' to many Dukes?"

"Constantly."

"Do many dukes assume your affection for Bastien de Ghislain to be dedicated acting?"

"All of them.  Perhaps, even, himself."

Zevran seemed taken aback by her answer.  His head tilted and smile softened. Less impertinent grin, more genuine mirth. "You speak freely with me, my lady."

"I stand before you nude and only half-bathed. Your word is that of an elven assassin from Antiva of all places.  I fear nothing you say will ever puncture my reputation."

"A strong reputation, indeed.  My client tried fervently to cast doubt about you in the court... to no avail.  I must admit I'm impressed to find a mage that a group of nobles refuses to think completely ill of."

"I must admit I'm impressed to find an assassin that spied on The Game being played but managed to live."

"Elven assassin.  I walked right into every house carrying a mop.  No questions asked."

Vivienne chuckled. "Brilliant, darling."

She stepped backwards towards her clothes, pondering how to dress without laying down her staff.

"If it makes you feel safer, freeze me again while you dress.  I know leaving, at the moment, will only make the trees feel denser and the shadows longer."

Having already thought about how uncomfortable she'd be if he disappeared from sight, Vivienne was grateful that he'd decided to stay with her.  It seemed she'd have to take him with her as some sort of willing prisoner.  As much as she hated to admit it, she was eager to find out what Dorian, Varric, and the Inquisitor wanted her to do.  Perhaps he'd be arrested for attempted murder.  Perhaps they'd feel safe in great numbers and simply let him go.  Her stomach flipped uncomfortably as it occurred to her that their idiot Inquisitor might actually recruit the man.

With a light shake of her staff, she'd frozen only his hands. Now that she was sure she wanted him to live, the supplementary fade magic felt like too great a gamble.

"Madam, this is most uncomfortable," Zevran yelped as he held up his ice-coated fists to have a better look.

"I'll dress quickly and, hopefully, undo the spell before you'll require amputation," Vivienne said.  She turned to face her clothing before he could see her smiling with amusement.

Zevran had seen the smile.  Loved it, even.  "...great."

 

* * *

Varric's cool as a cucumber demeanor left him, instantly, as he recognized Zevran.  He marched quickly over to the elf with his arms outstretched.

Shouting one another's names and gripping each other fiercely, they behaved like old friends.  Asking and answering questions quickly.  A few bawdy jokes about their mutual friend, Hawke.  Love and familiarity obvious in their postures. This was, indeed, -the- Zevran Arainai.

Vivienne's heart flipped, this time.  She'd stared down imminent death and survived.  Her knees quaked as if she'd turned away the reaper of souls, himself.  Without thinking, she pressed a quelling hand to her own chest and leaned heavily on her staff.  Dorian let his eyes flick from her obvious bewilderment to Varric's reunion.  

His features hard and serious, Dorian readied his staff while shifting all his body weight onto one bent leg.  A fighting posture that caught The Inquisitor's attention.

"What is going on, here!?" their leader insisted. "Dorian, weapons down!"

"He tried to kill her," The Tevinter stated.  Magic crackling in his free hand.

Varric paused.  He backed away from Zevran enough to see the shame on the elf's face as he looked up.

Zevran gave a weak smile with an accompanying shurg. "In my defense, I.... uh... did not kill her."

It was Varric that knocked down the assassin and tied him to a nearby tree.

* * *

 As Vivienne expected, the Inquisitor enthusiastically recruited Zevran Arainai into The Inquisition.  

Varric was tasked with keeping him from fulfilling his contract on Vivienne.  Dorian had taken to spending as much time as he could by her side.  Yet, despite the mild film of distrust that lightly coated all social interactions with assassins, Zevran blended into the group quite well and formed friendships, quickly.

He drank with Sera and Iron Bull.  He and Varric went back and forth telling parts of stories in tandem for the group while on long trips.  He and Cole sparred frequently to improve their fighting skills.  Cullen often invited him to play games of Wicked Grace.  She'd even caught Zevran flirting with a flustered Blackwall in the stables, once.  A flash of jealous heat then the chill of acceptance washing violently over her consciousness.

She'd straightened her spine, then.  Remembering that Zevran was not hers simply because her graciousness had saved him.  Remembering that him sparing her life did not mean that he wanted her.

Though popular, Zevran had seemed incapable of breaking Dorian's icy treatment of him. Then, during a raucous and jubilant dinner, the plainly dressed Antivan had asked the Tevinter's advice on where to purchase a new wardrobe.

He'd layered his inquiry with such a wash of compliments that Vivienne knew Empress Celene, herself, would have done anything the elf asked from that point on.  Dorian, obviously battling not to enjoy the deluge of praise had never stopped guarding her, but Vivienne noted that she'd not seen him sneer at Zevran ever again.  In fact, she felt quite put-out when the two men planned a trip to Val Royeaux, together.  It made sense for her to not arrive with her would-be assassin in tow while a local duke was determined to kill her, but the boys could have perhaps chosen a place where she could join them.

There was, of course, the fact that Zevran likely assumed she hated him.

Vivienne had tried her best to avoid ever seeing the man in private.  No one questioned her aversion to him.  Not even the elf, himself.  When they passed in hallways she kept her tone civil but her eyes averted.  When she ended up sitting across from him at meals, her eyes never left her plate except for to make eye-contact with the friends sitting beside him.  Once, while travelling, they'd ended up in the same carriage.  The same bench, no less.  At their first stop, she'd woken up to find their heads resting against one another and nearly fallen out of the carriage in her haste to escape his side.  She'd been careful, from that moment on, to never end up in the same vehicle, again.

Even during battle, she seemed preoccupied with her attempts to not run into him.  As if brushing against Zevran was the most repulsive thing that could ever happen.

Despite his guilt at having met her as a mark, Zevran couldn't stop himself from testing her obviously thin patience.

They'd met in a narrow doorway in one of the older parts of the library.  Her arms piled high with dusty books.  Grey dirt on her clothes and chin.  Her gleeful expression, obviously pleased over her ancient finds, fell and closed off.  Politely blanked in the presence of the man she seemed to dislike so deeply.  He did not move, at first.  He wanted, craved, contact with her.  Wanted to stand with his back against the door frame and force her to slide past him.  He knew these thoughts to be rude. The intrusive kind of fantasy that he respected her too much to indulge.

"Perhaps, I can help you carry those, Madam de Fer?"

"I..." Vivienne had already looked away from him.  She'd hoped to be seen by no one while dirty and over encumbered.  By some cruel twist of fate, Zevran was, again, seeing her at her worst.  As if he was drawn to her in moments of weakness.  The books suddenly felt heavy as her glee over finding them petered out. "Yes.  Thank you."

He couldn't stop himself from touching her hand as she passed over half of her load.  He held her hand.  His palm pressed against the top of her knuckles.  Her eyes flicked to his and they held one another's gazes, as well.  The seconds dragged on as their hands rested against one another and he wondered if some glorious magic had frozen time itself to let him enjoy the moment as long as he could.  Perhaps, forever.

She managed to pull her eyes away before snatching her hand back.

They walked to her room in silence. Vivienne determinedly watching the ceiling to keep her eyes off his back.

Vivienne did not hate Zevran.

The Inquisitor frequently asked her if she wanted the Antivan sent away. She declined each time as if the very idea insulted her.  Varric often assured her that Zevran would never threaten her, again.  She scoffed at the idea of ever being scared of him.

She knew he wouldn't kill her.  She'd known that as he fell to her feet beside the brook. A knight not defeated, but willingly changed.  Pledging his allegiance to her cause in a single motion.  Testing her worthiness of his fealty with the lie about Sebastien.  

At least that's what it had felt like.

The switch from hunted to trusted had been heady.  He'd seen something in her worth more than the money he'd ransom from his mark.  Bare in all possible ways and scared, she'd still managed to seem valuable to him.  Not First Enchanter.  Not a duke's paramour.  A woman.  Just a woman, to him.

She hated herself for those thoughts.

A beggar's opinion should have meant very little to her.  She'd worked so hard to never end up among their number.  Somehow his opinion had meant something even before she believed he was a trusted acquaintance of the most important Warden to ever live.  She'd found his smile endearing.  His face attractive.  His confidence irresistible. Even his short stature, making him a man she could tower over without the heels and hats, was a credit to his features.

She'd wanted him. Feared him, too.  Genuinely.

She'd have likely believed he was The Maker made flesh to find a new bride before she'd believe he was Zevran Arainai.  Did mere mortals possess such power and charm that it was evident underneath the rags and stench of poverty?  Were people like Dorian and herself doing everything backwards?  Were there really assassins with no need of masks?

She's seen Crows fly into crowded ball rooms in feathered neckwear and beaked hats.  She'd seen them stretch both arms out and come down with brutal force. They'd always leave with the same message.  "The Antivan Crows send their regards."  She never would have believed that men with such training, such dedication, strength, and skill could also be men that were so gleefully themselves that their very presence and voice could be likened to drugs.  

Did such a man exist?

Yes.  Yes to everything.  Because Zevran had stood before her and been proof of all those things.

And he'd spared her.

In some perverse way, her heart called him a hero.

* * *

 Zevran had never come to gloat.  Nor had Dorian.

It was Josephine that had slipped Vivienne a note with news from Val Royeaux.  News of a mysterious death that coincided with Dorian's trip to Orlais with Zevran.  A pompous duke killed in a brothel bed and his house completely emptied of valuables.  While authorities searched for anyone moving large quantities of gold, jewels, and furniture around Orlais, Lelianna's sources had gathered evidence that the entire house was unloaded into the river it overlooked.  Not a day passed where a fisherman didn't find a jeweled bangle or heavy scepter among his catch. 

Stunned by the news, Vivienne immediately sent Josephine's messenger to fetch Zevran Arainai to her rooms.

* * *

 Zevran padded into the room with loose pants, bare feet, an open shirt, and tossled hair.  Vivienne realized she'd been more intimidating to the errand boy than she'd meant to be.  The child had obviously ripped her guest from his bed.  No matter how frantic the message she imagined the child delivered, Zevran seemed as cool as ever.  The only evidence of him rushing to her side was his state of dress and the way his chest pumped quick and shallow in an effort to subtly contain his breathing.  He'd ran.

Vivienne was glad that the darkness of her skin and candlelit room kept him from seeing the warmth that bloomed in her cheeks.

Perhaps her gaze betrayed her, anyway.  Her eyes raked over his unlaced shirt.  The low v-shaped neckline showing far too much of his smooth, muscled chest.  Her eyes then darted to his hair.  Parted down the middle. No braids.  No ties.  Just soft, golden waves.  The sun-bleached strands shimmered in the candlelight.  Freshly washed and brushed.  She wanted to touch it.

Zevran reveled in her stare.  Having felt ignored for so long, he'd been desperate to feel her eyes upon him.  The weight of her gaze pawed at him and he took a deep breath to calm his heart.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you at this late hour.  I should have specified -not- to wake you, dear," Vivienne apologized. 

"It is not too late to summon a friend for a nightcap," Zevran let the apology roll off of him.  He was not annoyed.  Only relieved to find her calm and well.  "I'll take a seat while you prepare."

Vivienne shook her head only slightly at his impoliteness.  Smiled at his presumption.  At his not-so-subtle hint, she stepped away to retrieve two glasses and a bottle of something she hoped he'd like.

He sat on her couch.

The middle of her couch.

The only seat in the room other than her bed.  

She served them both generous portions, realizing she was too nervous to outright ask if the murdered noble had been his benefactor.  She'd known the departed well. The purest bloodline in all of Orlais and the most tarnished heart.  He'd been greedy and boastful his entire life.  A man feared by all and equally hated.  A man so feared and so hated that it was almost ridiculous to assume that the only person after his head would have been the assassin on her couch.  

Nervously, she sat.  All too aware that his position forced her to sit thigh-to-thigh with him.  He didn't move or even flinch away from her.

Zevran was never one to make Vivienne beg or wait, it seemed. A natural at anticipating her needs, he leaned forward and placed a heavy ring on the table between their glasses.  A rough-hewn hunk of gold with the mirror-image of a complicated crest carved into it's diamond head.

"The seal of House Veillantif," the elf announced matter-of-factly. "Duke Tristam was the last of their line considering his wife never became a mother and his whores only bore daughters.  I assume none of them will be needing this.  It is the only token I risked bringing to you."

Vivienne hadn't turned to look at him.  She stared at the ring with no idea what to say to him.  Her knight, not in shining armor, but in shadows.

"I should have come to you, earlier.  It's just... the first time I killed for no reward.  Outside of defense, I mean," Zevran said. "I needed time to reflect upon what it meant to me."

That thought struck her in an odd place. Discomfort.  Pleasure. "Did you figure it out?"

"It means there are no other contracts on your head. At least not from him.  It won't be long before other assassins he may have hired will know their client is incapable of providing an award," Zevran responded.  "You can start trusting me.  Dorian can stop guarding you."

"An apology for attempting to kill me?" Vivienne asked.  A surprising lack of bite in her words.

"I never apologize for doing my job," Zevran said.  Aware that perhaps he should have apologized many times over but still incapable of doing so.  He chuckled  "Guilt and remorse are career-killers for career killers.  I just feel it is..."

He'd turned to her as he spoke.  Moving his whole body so that he sat sideways on the couch.  He stared at her despite how she remained rigid and focused entirely on the ring on the table.

"You feel?" she asked without turning her head.

"You deserve to be protected.  I know you can do this yourself, but you deserve it, nonetheless," he said.  "Though I am happy your peers in Orlais as well as here respect you.  Find you to have integrity.  I feel it is unfair that you are also feared and sometimes scorned by the same people.  Perhaps this is of your own design, but I can't imagine being in your close acquaintance and feeling anything but impressed.  Charmed, even."

Vivienne itched for her hat.  For an opportunity to show Zevran what others saw of her.  Her seriousness.  Her carefully sharpened barbs.  First impressions truly were a bitch.  He knew her as a naked woman washing off in a babbling fucking brook.

"Your pity is unnecessa..." Vivienne started.

"Pity!?  No!  Never! Madam de Fer I worship, you," he said as his body slid from the couch onto the floor.  The serpentine motion making Vivienne finally turn her head to look at him.  The top of his head had haunted her dreams for too many weeks.  The memory of him kneeling to her in the forest as arousing if not more so than memories of her suitors at court feasting between her thighs.

She tensed further.  She definitely shouldn't look at him.  Shouldn't see her fantasies made real as the man bowed at her feet, once more.  Her intake of breath was sharp enough to be heard.  Her arms were tense enough to shiver as she gripped both a couch arm and her own thigh.  She wanted to spread her legs.  Invite him to worship her more intimately. 

"You must think me a slimy sycophant.  Always ready with a smile and a compliment," Zevran's voice had a tone of apology.  "Please understand that I mean this.  You are a treasure from the Goddess, herself."

Her stunned silence stretched on.  She'd never been rendered speechless by any man.  Least of all an elven expat with a career that only amounted to a decades-long crime spree.

Zevran continued. "I won't claim to have killed entirely on your behalf.  That is a burden I would bestow upon no one I cared for.  I simply want you to understand that I am grateful to you for not telling the Inquisitor to turn me away.  I am grateful to you for stunning me instead of instantly burning me alive.  I am grateful to you for enduring my presence, even now.  I know it cannot be easy to reconcile how me met with how we go forward."

He looked up at her with eyes full of pleading.  His smile still there, but wary.  How sick it made her to find his ill-deed endearing.  A man that had spent his life attributing his value to how well he could kill had killed for her.  A grim task that would tip the very balance of power in Orlais.  She could dance back into Val Royeaux at any moment to lick up the power that flowed unchecked in the absence of Tristam Veillantif and his riches.  She could console his grieving wife.  Become an inadvertent beneficiary of his estate.  Find her place among nobles beside a new best friend instead of peeking tentatively from the shadows cast from Bastien de Ghislain.

She knew that Zevran had known that.  Even as he kept the Veillantif seal, he had known.  He was the hand of Vivienne's revenge.  The hand of Vivienne's freedom from a lover she deeply cared for but could never claim.  

As Zevran's smile crinkled into worry, she knew her face looked pained.  That he could see the tears behind her usually icy eyes.  No ice remained.  At least for the moment, there was warmth coursing through her.  

Gratitude. Lust.

Pulsing and invigorating.

For the months he'd been there, she'd fought it.  Fought her desire for him with every ounce of her being.  Yet, at the moment she was not a powerful mage in thick breeches and robes.  There was no towering hat perched upon her head like a crown for demons.  She was a woman wearing a long shift dress of delicate fabric.  Likely revealing more to him than she'd intended to.  She pulled her arms up to cradle and conceal her chest. Pain shooting through the fingers she'd clenched tightly enough to cut the circulation from. Without accessory, weapon, or even shoes, she lacked everything that made her look imposing.

Yet Zevran's posture made her a queen.  His words, a deity's blessing to Thedas. She'd always wanted this. To be adored.  Even and especially by someone that would take her hand in public.  Proudly tell the world what love he felt each time he thought of her.

Why him?

Why not Sebastien?

She considered finally asking the Inquisitor to relieve Zevran of his duties.  She imagined the simplicity of her life once he was finally sent away.  She considered the prospect of once again closing her heart to the prospect of love.  Vivienne cursed the very universe for making her as weak as she'd always feared becoming.  A mere mortal.  A creature that feared, fancied, and fucked.  After all, she could shape the very sky above them if she exerted her will strongly enough, but somehow she had no control over her own emotions.  She couldn't still the trembling in her arms or the throbbing in her sex.  She squirmed. Warm and wet with desire. 

"How..." Vivienne licked her lips.  "...how do we go forward?"

"I will defer to your will, de Fer," Zevran promised.  "However, my instinct insists that I kiss your feet as any acolyte would during worship."

Power.  A thing she craved quite naturally and had always siphoned from the elements.  Was this an element, too?  Sexual desire? The ability to make a man marvel at the thought of pressing his lips to her very roots?

She took a deep breath, pushing herself to sit comfortably against the back of her couch.  She concentrated on letting every muscle in her body relax. Another breath. She dropped her shoulders. Another breath. She let her legs fall open. Another breath.  She looked down to Zevran.  His eyes hungrily watching as her hands bunched in the smooth fabric of her dress. Vivienne moaned her relief as she finally decided to let go.  To let him be her knight instead of her guilty pleasure in dreams.

With a tiny nod at Zevran, Vivienne planted both of her feet on the colorful carpet beneath them.  Her toes dug into the clean, plush material.  She closed her eyes, having already memorized how they top of his head looked when he was on his hands and knees before her.  How his eyes looked when his words came out so suave and worshipful.

Soft, slow, and adoring.

Zevran kept no pretense that his kisses were meant to remain below the ankle.  Much to her delight, her kneeling suitor kissed a trail up her left calf and didn't slow down until she was helping him push the soft, yellow fabric of her dress against her waist.

Vivienne gasped as he whispered his love of her beauty, taste, and scent against parts of her that craved him, most.  "It seems your instincts never fail you, my dear."

"My instincts tell me to stay near you as long you'll have me," Zevran chuckled after a flick of tongue and before an engulfing suck.  He chuckled again at the way she exclaimed as her fingers shot into his hair to pull. To guide.  "And I, sweet lady, shall never fail you."


End file.
